


If You're Leaving (Baby Let Me Down Slowly)

by AndIWillConquer



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, No Beta we Die like Starks, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-01 12:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18334406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndIWillConquer/pseuds/AndIWillConquer
Summary: It's the eve of the battle to end all battles, and Sansa relates far more to the Villain than the Princess.





	If You're Leaving (Baby Let Me Down Slowly)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Let Me Down Slowly (feat. Alessia Cara)- Alec Benjamin.

It hurt. 

Laying with her face pressed into the covers, listening to Daenerys retreating footsteps- so unique, a gait so small and yet so heavy, so confident and smooth- retreat from her lodgings, past Sansa’s rooms. 

Into Jon’s. 

They were separated only for propriety, after all- it wasn’t as if the entire castle was unaware what, exactly, brought the notoriously domineering Queen to Winterfell in a manner that wasn’t simply demolition and destruction. They all knew what would happen once the cold scourge of the dead was dealt with.

If they were dealt with.

It was horrid, there was no right way for her to feel about either outcome: either they all died horrible deaths… or Daenerys and Jon wed and returned house Targaryen to its former glory; two valiant, glimmering heroes gilded in victory. It was a pretty picture.

Sansa hated it. 

Hated the fact that she couldn’t focus on the future they needed, couldn’t pour her heart and soul into the effort to protect them from that great dark night that drew ever nearer, not when her traitor heart keened at its very thought. 

Self-hatred was an old companion, but never before had it taken this form. She’d hated the needlework on her side table, certainly, but never because it wasn’t in red and black but grey and white. She’d hated weapons in the hand of a Queen before, but never because it meant they’d be off to the battlefield. 

Hating beloved figures was no new hat either- in that fickle, youthful ignorance she still loathed of herself she’d hated her father, childishly, the moment he suggested Joffrey might not be her perfect match. She’d hated him later, too, and Cersei with a vitriol she knew meant she wasn’t made of the stuff of a princess in a song, let alone a nice person. Princesses weren’t capable of the hatred she still felt well up in her breast at the thought of the Lannister Lion- even seeing little Tyrion, her once husband, once protector, welled up the acrid taste of iron in her mouth. She bit back the wolves’ tongue that bayed for blood at the sight of his very back even now, in such dire straits. Florian could never love a Jonquil who showed such selfishness in the face of the greater good. No, hatred of the loved was nothing new. 

Hatred of Jon, though… that was something she’d never thought possible. Not when he wrapped his arms around her and her half dead body felt the first warmth in years, right there in the courtyard with half a dozen black brothers gaping at them. Not even when he was merely fathers’ bastard- little thought of and evaluated even less. No, this was entirely new. 

She found far more familiar faces in the villain of the story, than the princess these days. For villain she must surely be, to hate the union that brings so much hope to all others.  
She wishes, in these deep dark parts of the night (the only time she has to herself, the only time she has no need to school her thoughts or her face into rigorous submission) that she’d taken up swordcraft, so that she might go whence the army would, whence they would, to join them at all intimate moments; to interrupt them with oblivious pettiness and ensure that for every moment they might steal she shall steal ten. 

To ensure that when she dies, it isn’t alone. 

Sansa curses herself, that never once in the rebuilding of Winterfell did she take a moment to take up a blade, to learn even the most rudimentary of skills so that she might accompany them and die, warm and seen. 

Warm, like the crackle of the log fire in her solar as they pour over reports. Warm, like the touch of a hand under the table in the great hall. Warm, like a rare tilt of a mouth that is so often inscrutable. Warm, like soft eyes in firelight. Warm, like stolen kisses in cool stone alcoves. Warm, like the slide of dragon hide beneath her fingertips.

Warm, like Daenerys. 

They leave at first light, and the last contact Sansa will have with her Princess from a Song is a shared glance in the hallway. Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell, but such a title does not merit a personal goodbye from the Warrior Queen off to save the world. 

The castle is quiet, now, as if the whole kingdom is holding its breath. 

Sansa feels as if she’ll suffocate along with it. 

In the morning Sansa will rise, and she will wave off the people who will fight so valiantly for life to prevail with all the grace and dignity of her station. She will smile, and she will ensure their departure is undertaken without a hitch, and then she will continue to prepare Winterfell for the worst- but for now, in the darkest part of the night, as the door to Jon’s quarters shuts with a beat like a war drum…. She wishes Daenerys would enter her rooms instead, if only to steal the dream for one more night.


End file.
